City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [47]
From hunks of wood wrenched from the farmhouse walls, they constructed a pyre on which to burn Denlin’s body, so as to carry his spirit away to the higher realm. Having wrapped him carefully in cloth, the fire was then ignited. The flames burgeoned up the timber pile, and gnawed into the old man’s corpse, till the fire spat sparks right across the evening sky.
As he listened to Rika’s soothing incantations, they seemed to touch him on some deeper level he was unaware of. Randur hadn’t had much time for religion in his past. Too busy chasing girls around the villages, too busy dancing in fire-lit shadows. There were too many pleasures on offer in life, surely, to become occupied with stilling your natural urges, and contemplating what came next. Especially in Vill-jamur, where he’d travelled pretending to be someone he wasn’t, there were even more ways to be distracted.
Yet he had to admit that Rika’s vaguely melodic prayers were luring him in some ethereal way. ‘What are you chanting about? Must admit, I’ve not much of a clue about your Jorsalir stuff.’
A look of happiness fashioned itself in her face. ‘When the two gods, Bohr and Astrid, male and female, created this world, they created other ones too. Different worlds, some parallel, but many on higher and lower plains of existence. Gods and half-gods engaged in petty combats, there at the top of existence. Godhood is a good life, supposedly, but they are never satisfied, and always competing. There are even ghost realms occupying that layer on top of ours, Randur – prisons for those trapped in some harsh memory. Which is why being in this present realm, despite its joys and hardships, because of its joys and hardships, is ideal for spiritual development.’
He grunted at that point, though not exactly disapproving. ‘What about Denlin?’ Randur asked. ‘Where’s he going to end up, then? One of these other realms?’
‘Yes, and my prayers are intended to help him reach a good realm.’
Did it matter any more? Denlin was dead, just dead.
Eir and Rika stepped back into the farmhouse for the night, leaving Randur alone outside to brood, staring into the flames. Denlin had helped him so much – by selling on the jewels that Randur had seduced from the grasp of rich old ladies, and thus brought in a lot of money for the two of them. They’d become colleagues of sorts, and a firm bond had developed from the need for each other’s presence.
Somewhere in the dark distance, a wolf called, the creature heightening Randur’s sudden sense of isolation from the world.
Thank you, you old bugger.
TWELVE
‘Commander Lathraea, my son, please – come forward.’
Again, there had been that initial reaction he was used to – the realization that he was albino, that he was someone different. White-robed and reeking of musk, the old priest tilted the back of his hand upwards. Brynd removed his wax cape, folded it to one side, walked forward and knelt to kiss the offered hand. There were far too many gold rings on those aged fingers for his liking.
‘A Night Guard soldier in my church,’ the priest rasped. His face was lightly pockmarked, his eyes sharp. ‘That is indeed an honour. And the famed albino, too . . .’
The church was more like a cathedral, really. It was filled with those ornate decorations that Brynd couldn’t stand. Why did Bohr and Astrid, the creator gods, those epitomes male and female . . . why did they need such excessive finery? It suggested that these priests and priestesses extorted a lot of money from their followers merely to spend on ornate fripperies. Candelabras and crest mirrors and console tables of such craftsmanship. A thick red carpet bisected the cavernous stone-built room, wooden benches ranged on either side of it, where men and women of the city would come and pray segregated in their allotted areas.
‘Priest Pias, the honour is mine,’ Brynd lied. He stood up to face the old man directly. Thick wrinkles in the priest